Vera said, 'Here's Luce lying tucked up as jolly as a
sandboy, why shouldn't we be jolly too?'"

"Exactly; and she wasn't fretful, or complaining, or hysterical once,
all the time, was she?"

His thoughts travelled back over the memories of the weeks of which
they spoke; the weeks in which he had first begun to find Vera
attractive. He saw the face which in that time he had, not without
surprise, discovered to be pretty; he thought of the fun they had made
between them, and heard her chattering, gay voice, and listened to
their mingled laughter. A smile moved his lips for an instant; he
looked up, caught his wife's eye, and had a sudden feeling of looking
foolish in her sight.

"She was a good little woman, when we wanted her, and I'm sorry if
she's ill. That's all," he said. "The Butts aren't very well off, and
she doesn't get the comforts a woman wants in illness."

"I'll go and see after her to-morrow," Lucilla said.

It had become the custom of Everard Barett to go for a stroll the last
thing at night, to get a "mouthful of air before turning in," as he
said. When, later on this evening, he looked in upon his wife before
starting for his walk, he found her standing by the hearth, gazing
thoughtfully down into the fire.

"If you're thinking of dropping in at the Butts," she said, "you might
take a few grapes to Vera. There are just a couple of bunches left.
Shall I get them?"

He was putting himself into his topcoat, and he reddened a little with
the exertion. "Oh, grapes?" he said; "I took them this afternoon. I saw
them standing about, and----"

"Oh, that's all right," Lucilla said. "So long as she had them! And is
that where the violets went? I wanted some in, to-day, and gardener
said they had all been gathered out of the frame. Did you take the
violets, too, to Vera?"

"I daresay I did," said Everard, turning his back.

"You daresay?"

"Well, I did, then. How should I know you wanted them, or that there
was going to be a piece of work about a handful of violets?"

With that he went, and pulled the door to with a slightly unnecessary
emphasis.

Everard Barett was the sleeping partner in a large manufacturing firm
in that provincial town. He drew his comfortable income from this
source, but had very little else to do with the business; and so it was
that time hung heavily on his hands. Yet, every now and then, a
business zeal would seize him, or a weariness of doing nothing, and he
would have hi